Live a Little
by chawanmushi
Summary: Seijuurou and Makoto on a Sunday. Kink meme fill. (Rating changed.)
1. Chapter 1

**Live a Little**

Note: Kink meme request fill. Free! Iwatobi Swim Club (c) Kyo-Ani.

* * *

Makoto's debating between a navy dragsuit and a black and blue jammer, wondering if Rei would like either, when it suddenly occurs to him that this is wrong. It's Sunday. He's the _captain_ of the swim club—not the boy Friday. He shouldn't be running errands on his only free day in a sporting goods store.

So what if he has no pressing plans. Surely, there's a better way for someone to waste their only day off?

He sighs and gives up and tosses both suits into his shopping basket. One's for Rei, the other for Haruka. Kou's hastily compiled list didn't specify it but he's sure Haru wouldn't mind the extra suit. He shuffles dutifully onto the next aisle, hunting for the remainder of his list. Some earplugs, chlorine-removing shampoo, suit sealant, and...

He peers down at bubbly orange characters. _Cute towels :)_

Nagisa. He sighs again.

"Tachibana?"

Makoto's eyes flutter to his left. Deep red hair and golden eyes and skin, made all the more bold by a black tee shirt and black track pants. Seijuurou Mikoshiba. Captain of the Samezuka Academy swim team.

Without invitation, he comes over, shopping cart in tow. It's empty save for a large white box of disposable swim caps. "How's it going?" Unabashed, he peeks down into Makoto's basket. "Stocking up on the weekly supplies, eh?"

"Something like that," Makoto says with a forced grin. He's not too thrilled with the idea of having to do this once a week.

"Is Gou-kun with you?"

"No, she's not. It's just me." Though he'd bet their budget if Kou was here, she'd be putting the stability of the glass fixtures to the test.

A crestfallen look flashes, briefly, over Seijuurou's features and Makoto immediately regrets even saying anything. Thankfully, it's a brief thing, because in the next instant, the redhead's expression shifts to something more relaxed.

"This your first supply run?" he asks.

Curious, Makoto tilts his head, looks back and forth between his basket and Seijuurou's knowing smirk. "How could you tell?"

"Your stuff says it all. For starters, what you really want to get are the big bottles of the shampoo instead of the little ones." He says _the shampoo _like it's a secret lingo between them—not just swimmers—and Makoto finds himself rubbing at his nape.

Seijuurou doesn't sense his discomfort. Or if he does, he doesn't say anything. He just shrugs and continues, "I mean, you guys are going to go through them like...well, water, so you might as well stock up with as much as you can."

It makes sense. Perfect sense, actually, and Makoto looks over his list, calculates the club's paltry budget and wonders if he can make a sacrifice here or there on the list without incurring his club's wrath. He can't.

Meanwhile, Seijuurou invades more of his personal space and plucks up the bottle and skims the label. "Reflect H2O?"

"It's...the best kind?" Makoto offers, though he's obviously unsure. All he knows is that it's Haru's favorite brand so, naturally, it must be the best.

"Yeah, to burn a hole in your pocket with maybe. Come on."

Nonplussed, Makoto follows him to several aisles near the back of the store. He notices Seijuurou tends to hunch over the cart as he moves along and, when he straightens to look at the top row of a shelf, he's rather tall—taller than Makoto himself—with the lean and long limbs typical of a swimmer. He also notices how Seijuurou's shirt rides up and exposes the defined lines of his tanned back when he bends over to look at the bottom row.

Suddenly it's too warm and the shelf behind them is very interesting.

"Gotcha, you sneaky little bastard."

Busted. Makoto freezes, reddening. "P-Pardon?"

Seijuurou's crouched and half-struggling to pull a large bottle out from the very back of the bottom shelf. "Someone thought it'd be hilarious to hide this behind all the bottles of suit cleaner. Must've been one of those punks from Ishikawa."

Ah, Ishikawa High School. A team better known for their practical jokes and internet trolling than their actual swimming ability. He wouldn't put product displacement past them. Iwatobi's managed to avoid their antics so far but Makoto knows it's only a matter of time before the stink bombs and prank calls start rolling in.

"Here you go." Seijuurou hands him the large and heavy sixty four-ounce container that looks more like industrial floor cleaner than actual shampoo. "When in doubt, go generic. Same results, half the price."

Makoto blanches at the price tag. "That's too much."

A frown makes its way over Seijuurou's face and for a moment there, Makoto thinks he may have offended him. It fades seconds later, though, replaced by an easygoing grin. Huh. "You'll be spending at least three times more than that if you buy the same amount of Reflect. And let's not forget sticky fingers and people losing the bottles. Having it in one big vat makes it easier to control distribution."

Seijuurou dispenses wisdom in an easy, matter-of-fact way that Makoto finds refreshing. He's not very condescending despite being from a prestigious school and rival team. He's also got a point. A very good point. Nagisa alone could put the club in immense debt in a month at the rate he went through shampoo. Still, it's a lot of money.

"I don't know," Makoto says with an apologetic frown, "it still seems kind of pricy."

"Use your discount card."

Embarrassed, Makoto averts his gaze. Why oh why did they make him captain? "I—we...don't have one," he says lamely.

Seijuurou shrugs, digs in his pocket, and hands him a plastic card. "Use mine."

Makoto eyes it in his palm like it might sprout a head and bite him. "A-Are you sure...?"

"From one captain to another, trust me on this. You're gonna need all the help you can get." The redhead playfully jabs at his shoulder. "Go ahead."

Arms flat on his sides, Makoto bends over at the waist with practiced grace, bowing deeply. "Thank you very much!"

It's nothing for him to thank the other captain—in fact, Makoto laments not being able to do anything else for him in return—yet the gesture seems to make every capillary in Seijuurou's face burst. "Hey, hey, n-no need for that. C'mon, I'm not some salary man—!"

Makoto just chuckles.

"Now then," Seijuurou leans back over his cart's handlebar in that same lazy pose from before. His grin towards Makoto is even lazier. "What else do you have to get?"

* * *

With Seijuurou's advice and his card, it doesn't take long—barely another twenty minutes—for Makoto to gather up all the things from the list and check out.

"I can't thank you enough for your help, Mikoshiba-buchou." They're standing out by the cart corral in the parking lot when Makoto hands back the discount card. Their fingers brush against each other in the exchange. Makoto blinks and goes warm; Seijuurou busies himself with his own purchases.

"Not a problem," Seijuurou says as he hauls his white box of caps onto one broad shoulder. "What kinda asshole captain would I be if I was unsportsmanlike?"

Point there. Makoto would have done the same. "The captain from Ishikawa, I'd wager," he quips.

Seijuurou lets out a loud barking laugh. A woman loading her SUV jumps up with a start and yelp at it, which only seems to crank up the volume and hilarity. "Ooh, nice one. Two points for you. You'll fit right in with the other captains."

That's the most reassuring thing Makoto's heard in weeks. He actually believes it.

"Where's your ride?" Seijuurou asks.

"I'm taking the train."

"That blows. You want a ride?"

Makoto loops the handles of several bags through one hand while the other hefts the heavy bottle of shampoo. The station's not far on foot. Though it is Sunday and the train heading back home on a reduced schedule leaves much to be desired. He loves his cozy oceanside town as much as the next person but he really, really hates its train system sometimes.

Still, it feels like he's imposing on the other captain's generosity somehow. Seijuurou's already given him plenty of help and advice, all without asking for one wit in return. "I...don't know."

"Come on. Live a little." There's a mischievous twinkle in his eyes when he says it and Makoto can't find it in himself to argue. When Seijuurou begins to walk, Makoto follows. "A nice day like today and you wanna lug all them bags to a station, wait for who knows how long for a long train ride with a shitty AC, only to walk again?"

And, yet again, more wisdom disperses from Fountain Seijuurou.

The bags _are _a little heavy...

Makoto sighs with a smile. "Sure."

Surprising to absolutely no one, Seijuurou's car is red.

A bold red Toyota Yaris hatchback that smells, faintly, of women's perfume. It looks a lot smaller from the outside with ample room for all their stuff in the trunk but not enough for Makoto's long legs up front. He's practically up on the dash; his knees are almost to his chest, torso and limbs bunched in like an accordion.

Meanwhile, Seijuurou's in the driver's seat, comfortable as can be. His fingers are lingering at the key in the ignition when he spots Makoto's position. "Sorry. I forgot—I don't get passengers as big as me very often. Here..."

Makoto opens his mouth to correct him on how he's actually smaller than Seijuurou is and how _it's okay, I'm used to being packed in like a sardine in a compact car_, and _it's no big deal, I'm thankful for the ride, what kind of mileage do you get on this, anyway? _But the words are trapped tight in his throat in the next instant.

Because Seijuurou's face is in his lap.

It takes Makoto a few more seconds to remember to breathe; even longer to look down and realize that Seijuurou isn't going in for the kill, so to speak, and actually has his face turned toward the dash, away from his crotch, with one hand digging beneath the seat...

"Hang on. Gotta find the..."

There's a loud click and Makoto's seat slides back all the way. The oxygen returns to his lungs and brain. His heart stops pounding in his ears.

Seijuurou's sitting up and looking at him with a tipped brow. "There. Better?"

Unable to talk, Makoto just nods several times and shifts around in his seat until he's comfortable—well, as comfortable as he can get after something like that. He makes very sure to fold his hands over his lap just _so_. Nothing happened and nothing stirred within him _yet _but an ounce of prevention and all that.

The engine roars to life, as does the radio. At full volume on track three of Girls Generation CD.

Seijuurou, face redder than his own hair, brakes hard in mid-reverse, slams his fingers against the deck, and turns the damn thing off after cursing it to hell and back. "Er. In case you can't tell already...this isn't really my car."

Of course. It was too good to be true. Thinking of police sirens and disapproving frowns and jail cells, Makoto gasps and Seijuurou, seeing what's sure to be a horrified expression, almost sputters. "But don't worry! It's not hot. It's actually my sister's. She works for an airline and lets me borrow it."

Oh.

That explains the CD. Maybe. And the perfumey smell. Makoto idly wonders if that's Seijuurou or his sister's doing. And, if the latter, what Seijuurou himself smells like...

They pull out onto a busy thoroughfare almost too quickly. While trying to merge to the freeway exit, Seijuurou speeds up so close onto a pick-up, Makoto finds himself white-knuckling the armrest and bracing for impact. There's no accident. No tires squealing. No one sailing through the windshield. Nothing. Although Seijuurou does angrily lay on the horn when the pickup driver brake-checks him several feet ahead.

Oh, god, they're going to die. Right there, on the freeway.

Perhaps noticing Makoto hyperventilating beside him, Seijuurou snorts a laugh. "Chill, man. You're in safe hands," he proudly declares, "I've been driving for a while now and haven't once yet got into an accident."

It's hard to see how that's even possible. The brush with the pickup wasn't a fluke because, as it turns out, Seijuurou drives in a way that Makoto can't describe except _like a complete and utter maniac_. Aside from the fact that he forgets to signal half the time and makes last-minute turns and lane changes the other half, Seijuurou doesn't seem to understand that speed limits are law and not suggestions. Cars, pickups, semis—everyone's game for a tongue-lashing if they cut him off (although it's fair game if he cuts them off). And heaven help anyone ahead of him in the fast lane.

They finally get to a cruising pace on a mostly clear road. Makoto double checks his seatbelt twice, anyway.

Despite all of this hair-raising terror, Seijuurou himself is as cool as a cucumber, one hand on the gear shift and the other on the steering wheel, seemingly oblivious to the other drivers honking and cursing at him. With bright hair against the backdrop of the vibrant sun and ocean beyond his window, he actually _looks _warm and inviting, in a peaceful sort of way. It's rude, and he knows it, but Makoto can't help but stare at him when he's like that. In awe.

After a while, Seijuurou notices and glances over, making eye contact. A grin quirks up a corner of the redhead's mouth and slightly crinkles his golden eyes in a way that makes something sweet and warm surge in the pit of Makoto's belly. His lips part and there's the barest flash of pearly white teeth and for a fleeing moment, Makoto wonders if they're sharp like Rin's.

And then Seijuurou leadfoots the brake at a red light to avoid hitting the minivan in front of them. The tires don't screech but the lingering stench of burnt rubber and the force which they both slam back into their seats with is enough to remind Makoto this isn't just a peaceful Sunday drive with a gorgeous view and driver.

"You okay?"

Groaning and breathless, Makoto nods, even though he can't see straight. In the aftermath of everything, Makoto realizes his hand had instinctively clutched the nearest thing. Something warm and solid.

Seijuurou's hand on the gear shift.

"Sorry," Makoto mumbles and starts to pulls his hand away. The tan one beneath it shifts and comes over his, offering a reassuring squeeze.

There's a deep flush of color to Seijuurou's face when he looks between their joined hands and his trembling passenger, and Makoto isn't sure if it's because of the near-brush with death or from what was happening before it or now. "It's all right," the redhead says after focusing his gaze back on the road. "You can...keep it there. Um, if you want."

Makoto does, never once moving it for the remainder of their trip.

* * *

Save for a few rounds of small talk to ask about directions and an upcoming scrimmage, the ride home is quiet. Seijuurou drops him off down the hill from Haru's place, helps him unload his stuff, and turns that newly familiar shade of red when Makoto bows to him in thanks again.

Makoto waves and waits until the Yaris is down the street and out of his sight before he heads up the stairs leading to Haruka's house. The entire team's in the main room, mulling over something and eating grilled mackerel with rice when he wanders in.

They're surprised at his haul, impressed at how he's managed to get the most quality items while staying within budget. Makoto doesn't say he had a little help. Doesn't even mention the ride home—which makes everything from earlier seem kind of...clandestine and forbidden. He likes it that way, though he's not sure why.

Nagisa asks him how it went and Makoto's honest with him: it went well. _Very _well.

In fact, he looks forward to doing it again.

* * *

Note: Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

Note: Free! Iwatobi Swim Club (c) Kyo-Ani.

* * *

The seven days since he last saw Seijuurou pass by normally, if not a little slow, for Makoto. Not that things were exceptionally dull. They couldn't be. Between Kou's revamped training regimens taking their toll on his body and studying for an English test (that he passed through divine intervention in spite of all his back-breaking efforts), he simply didn't have time to think about anyone or anything else in his otherwise simple life.

But when his alarm goes off on Sunday morning, shortly before Ren and Ran were up and ready for their weekly big breakfast, the first thing his cloudy mind's eye sees is red and he's instantly up on his feet, ready to face the day.

It doesn't occur to Makoto that he might be a little too overzealous for a simple trip to the store, especially since he doesn't have many things to pick up this time around. Even so, his outfit is carefully selected and, just for the heck of it, he goes for the red plaid shirt instead of the green one. He throws together a quick breakfast for the twins and wolfs down his own plate, waves bye to his family, then makes a beeline for the train station and, eventually, Sport Zero.

The excitement and joy thrumming in his ribcage, Makoto decides, is normal and healthy. And different from anything he's ever experienced. It's not like the warmth in his chest that surges every morning before school when he sees Haru from the bottom of the hill; or the same warmth spreading over his cheeks when Nagisa nudges his head against his shoulder and hugs him. Or the tingle racing down his lower back when Kou leans over a tad too much...

It's all of those and something else entirely.

His heart flutters when he sees a bright red Toyota Yaris in the parking lot. It flutters some more once he half-walks, half-runs inside and spots a similar hue of hair peeking out from over a shelf. By the time Makoto maneuvers into the same aisle, he's almost out of breath and his face has since flushed varying shades of pink. "H-Hey," he breathes.

Seijuurou's deciding between two pairs of red goggles when he looks up and grins. "Ahoy there, fellow Captain."

Dork. Makoto smiles, anyway. He can't help himself. "More procurement runs?"

"Yeah." Seijuurou tosses both goggles into his own basket. Already in it are some Speedos, a few black Shark-brand towels, and a white bottle of something. "The team needs to look their best next month."

The next regional tournament wasn't for another two months, and a joint-practice session disguised as a scrimmage in three weeks was the only 'meet' their respective schools had lined up. For Iwatobi, it hardly warrants buying new suits. For Samezuka, it's a matter of course. They take everything seriously there, apparently. Only makes sense their captain would, too.

"What about you?" Seijuurou nods toward Makoto's basket. His _empty _basket.

Embarrassed, Makoto clears his throat. "I'm...getting there."

"So I see."

Makoto slumps and Seijuurou laughs that hearty laugh of his, and slaps him once on the shoulder. "I'm just givin' you a hard time," he says, and his grip on Makoto's shoulder softens and sways a little, large fingers skimming his trapezius. It feels nice—nice enough to melt him into a puddle, that is. Through sheer force of will, he manages to remain rigid and standing.

Heat lurches up Makoto's neck and he silently prays that Seijuurou's dangerously close fingers can't feel it. "Mm."

"Need some help?"

_I thought you'd never ask _almost rolls off Makoto's tongue. Thankfully, or perhaps not, he's too distracted by the warm fingers hovering near his collar to say anything and instead just nods.

His hand still on Makoto's shoulder, Seijuurou leads them in the direction of the swimsuits. "Good. C'mon. I wanna show you something. They have these wicked suits here that are super expensive and made from the same materials that everyone wore in London and Beijing..."

Seijuurou's obviously very excited about this and although Makoto has no plans (or even the funds) to buy any suits, he follows. And gladly. It's almost thrilling, how passionate he is about something no one other than Haruka might ever care about. How eager he is to share it with him.

How much of a turn-on it is.

"Nice, isn't it?"

"Yeah..."

The hand on his shoulder jerks him a little, snapping him out of his daze. Makoto blinks as Seijuurou all but thrusts a dark grey jammer into his face. "No, I mean, _really_. Look at it. Pretty amazing stuff, isn't it?"

From what he can see, aside from a few aesthetic differences and probably the material itself, the jammer doesn't look _amazing_, or any different from what Makoto's seen through the years. Not that he'd be the best judge to begin with, considering he's always preferred legskins and bodyskins over anything else. He wonders what Seijuurou wears.

And what he looks like in them.

"Y-Yeah, looks amazing," he utters without a second glance to the swimwear, his face scorching hot.

Seijuurou's hand is still on Makoto, even as he dangles the hanger in front of them and spews out details about the suit, like how it's probably only made out of a certain percentage of Lycra and how only a small number of countries can provide them to their swimmers. It's all information Makoto might otherwise find fascinating, but all he can think about right now is how close Seijuurou is. And Speedos.

His throat is a little dry and he almost considers faking a coughing spell for some breathing room, but a loud chirp cuts through store's noise.

A cell phone. Seijuurou's.

The redhead's frowning when he presses the Talk button on the screen. "Yeah?"

Not wanting to eavesdrop, or even let on that he might be the slightest bit interested in who he may be talking to, Makoto wanders over to a nearby sales rack and pretends to be actually interested in the jammers and legskins. But even from there, he can clearly hear at least Seijuurou's half of the conversation, and he doesn't sound very happy.

"What do you mean where am I? I told you, I'm out doing stuff for the team."

A decidedly female voice blathers loudly on the other end; so loudly, Seijuurou has to hold the phone away from his ear. Makoto can't make out any of her words. He doesn't need to. Whoever's on the other end can be yelling in Greek for all he knows; she just sounds livid.

Not that it matters to Seijuurou, who simply rolls his eyes and mouths a mocking _blah blah blah_. "Yeah, well, just so we're clear: I didn't promise you anything last night."

Last night. A girlfriend? While not an impossibility, Seijuurou does attend an all-boys boarding school and he seems more than just the tiniest bit interested in Kou. When did he ever find the time to get a girlfriend? The thought of it makes Makoto feel strange inside. And guilty. Very guilty.

"No, I can't go get you now..."

Makoto freezes when Seijuurou sneaks a furtive glance at him. "Because I'm busy, that's why," he snidely retorts while sneering at his phone.

There's colorful language and screaming on the other end and Makoto wonders if he should say or do something. Maybe help savage what appears to be a relationship, of some sort, crumbling before his very eyes—something he feels partly responsible for.

"Fine, I'll be there soon. And you better be ready to go," Seijuurou says, exasperated. Without a 'bye' or even a simple, 'see ya,' he hangs up. "Friggin' nag."

"Everything okay?" Makoto tests the waters, tentatively, unsure if he even ought to be prying as it is. After all, he did just cause somewhat of a rift between Seijuurou and...whoever that was on the phone. The last thing he wants is for any of Seijuurou's current irritation directed over to him. Even if he deserves it.

"Yeah," Seijuurou sighs out, deflating, running a hand over the organized chaos that is his hair.

It didn't sound okay, but Makoto says nothing.

"It's just...it's my sister."

Makoto tips a brow. Sister? Huh. Inexplicably, relief washes over him like a wave, and he's not sure why. He just hopes it doesn't show on his face.

It doesn't, thankfully. Seijuurou's too busy slouching against one of the racks, hands jammed into his pockets with an annoyed look on his face. "She's back from work and since she doesn't know her schedule, she's got me playing taxi driver for her. It's all," and he assumes an overly nasal falsetto, "'Sei-chan, take me to the salon. Take me here, take me there. Pick me up, drop me off. Wah wah wah.'"

The theatrics stop, and not a moment too soon. Between the endearing nickname and the mimicry, Makoto's certain any longer and he might burst from withholding his laughter. Guilt threatens him a moment later. He doesn't know her, he doesn't know their situation, and it's not like him to laugh at another's issues. Yet...

"Friggin' thorn in the ass." Seijuurou sucks his teeth. "Anyway, I have to go fetch her royal pain-ness. Afraid I'm gonna have to cut this short."

The shift in the mood is sudden, like whiplash, and it makes Makoto grimace. Something heavy and cloudy weighs down painfully in his chest then wafts up into his throat, where it remains stuck in a thick lump. He swallows it down, familiar with the bitter feeling, tempered from years spent around Haruka and his caustic and avoidant nature. Tempered, yet still so very vulnerable.

"I see," he manages to say after a while.

"Yeah. Listen, I'm—I can give you a ride to the station, if you want."

"No need, I can walk."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. It's okay."

It's not okay.

* * *

And for the next few days, things for Makoto flip-flop between being 'not okay' to just 'barely tolerable', even though a botched shopping trip wasn't much cause for concern. It shouldn't bother him, shouldn't have any bearing on his life whatsoever—after all, it's not as if he and Seijuurou are dating or even close friends.

So, like all things in life, he tries bury it deep down and cover it with a smile and a light-hearted disposition. It works. It always has.

Haruka doesn't think anything's wrong with the way Makoto jumps whenever a red car passes them by on their daily walks to and from school; and for once, Makoto's glad his stoic friend's gaze is too busy focused on the ocean. Nagisa's too excited with their club activities and with, well, being Nagisa, and poor Rei's swept up in it to even notice.

Makoto's certain Kou's the only one aware something's off-kilter with him, and he takes extra care and makes every effort to deflect her probing stares and leading questions with smiles and forced confidence. The last thing he wants is for her to catch wind that the boy enamored with her is the reason why his trial times are suffering and why he's been putting as much effort and time into his laps and workouts to hide that fact.

It's strenuous and exhausting, both physically and mentally, and leaves him sore every night and fuzzy-minded every morning, but it works.

By Saturday, though, his limbs and mind are too heavy for him to even _think_.

Makoto's pulling on an old sleeping shirt while the evening breezes in from his open window when the door to his bedroom creeps open. His little sister's peeking through it, her expression sheepish.

It's late, though he doesn't know what time it is, exactly. It feels late and that's enough. "Ran. Are you having trouble sleeping?"

She shakes her head, dark pigtails swaying. "_Oniichan_, you left your phone downstairs."

He blinks. He barely even remembers using it, let alone leaving it anywhere. Sure enough, she waddles into his room and hands over his smartphone, the charge plug still in.

"You have a new message!" she chirps, proudly.

Makoto skims the screen display. Indeed he does. Two new messages. "Thank you, but you shouldn't peek into other people's phones, Ran." He then ushers her gently out of the room. "Now hurry along back to bed or I won't make the hot cakes for breakfast tomorrow."

That seems to do the trick, and Ran's out of his room and back down the hall into hers, quick as a whip. He envies her energy. Soon as she's gone, he's slumped onto his bed, thumbing through his phone's messages.

The first one is from Nagisa.

_Mako-chan! Club meeting 2morro Haru-chan's 7pm! Bring a smile! Rei-chan's got da snax! dont bee late!（__*´▽｀__*） _

Only Nagisa deems it fit to make even a text message festive with bright orange font and emoticons. Sheesh.

Makoto's reply is a brief and simple, _OK_, before he moves onto the next message. Thanks to Nagisa's font color choices and without his contacts in, his eyes can barely read _Is this Makoto? _from an unrecognized number.

Makoto's not a social butterfly and not many people have his number. Outside the club, only his parents, the twins' teachers, and a select few of his classmates have it. He wrinkles his nose. _Yes who is this?_

_Ahoy there!_

His heart soars. He can't quite type fast enough. _is thhis seijuro how did u get this number?_

A minute passes and has to remind himself to breathe as he envisions Seijuurou—or this poor or cruel soul who's either very confused or playing a prank on him, whatever—doubled over in laughter at him.

_Yah it is. Is this really Makoto?_

Oh. Well. His typing _was _pretty awful there. Even Nagisa'd be ashamed. _It is._

_Oh whew. Good. I was worried matsuoka gave me the wrong #_

Matsuoka? Was Kou passing his number around without him knowing? It doesn't strike him as something decidedly Kou-like, which further feeds his suspicion that someone else was responsible.

_You mean Rin?_

_Yah. what a hard ass. took him forever to buckle under and give it to me. _

A pause, and another message quickly follows: _do you know he has a pic of shamu in his addr book for you? XD LOL! Whats that all about? _

Makoto's not sure he wants to know how those particular strings of events tie together, but if Rin was in the room with him now, he'd risk the jagged bites and hug half the life out of him.

_Long story with that. Whats up?_

_Are you free tomorrow?_

Something inside Makoto flips with elation. Sweat's coating his palms. So much, in fact, he feels the smartphone sliding between his trembling fingers as he tries to brain a response that doesn't translate into random gibberish on his phone. Settling on a simple and honest _Until 7pm. Why? _he waits with bated breath.

_Wanna catch a movie?_

There's a loud thump and it's not until he hears his father's booming voice down the hall telling him to be careful that Makoto realizes it's because _his _elbow hit the wall behind him when he jumped.

_You there?_

_Oh sorry! Yes Yes I will go._

_Whoo! Pick u up Iwatobi station at noon?_

_OK. _

And that's it. There's no fanfare. No celebratory music or ticker parades. No return messages saying _just kidding! _Nothing. Makoto's eyes remain glued to his phone's screen, reading over them just to make sure he hadn't imagined the exchange just now. He reads them four times.

Nope, not imagining things. They're still there.

Sleep isn't instant despite his earlier exhaustion, though when it does come, he's smiling into his pillow.

* * *

Note: Please review!


	3. Chapter 3

Note: Free! Iwatobi Swim Club (c) Kyo-Ani

* * *

This isn't a date.

At least, that's what Makoto keeps telling himself between repeated checks of his smartphone's text message log. It's now precisely noon and he's waiting in front of the Iwatobi train station. At the same time, he's trying to convince himself that spending the better part of a day with a person he's inexplicably but undeniably attracted to doesn't necessarily quantify as a date. No matter how much it makes his cheeks hurt from smiling so much about it.

He's thumbing through last night's text messages and hoping the stirring in his chest they cause is enough to ignore the fact that Seijuurou's over ten minutes late. It's not. With a sigh, he jams the phone into his pocket and silently scolds himself for being so antsy. Even Rei shows less anxiety before their meets.

Minutes later, he checks his phone again. Nothing. Panic shakes through his limbs. Is he being stood up?

Impossible. Because this isn't a date.

Is it?

Earlier that morning, his mother entered his room without knocking to replace some linens and caught him splashing some of his father's aftershave on his jaw and throat. She didn't say anything, didn't ask why her son—who doesn't even need to shave his face to begin with—was using that stuff. She merely sniffed and quirked her lips into a smile.

"My, my. Calvin Klein? Must be a hot date."

Red-faced, Makoto denied it, said he was just trying something new, and made every attempt to avoid her knowing looks at the breakfast table.

But now, he still finds himself wondering: if his own sweet mother all but suspected it, did it make it true? She always did know best after all.

It's best not to think about it, he decides. Impossible as it is.

He fiddles with the orange straps of his wristwatch, catches a glimpse of its face and realizes it's a quarter after noon now, and Seijuurou's nowhere to be found. A tiny lump forms in his throat and he tries to swallow it down by rationalizing things. It's not a date.

Then again, if it isn't, then why is his heart sinking?

He's never been on a date but he's pretty sure there's a specific protocol for this type of thing. It's certainly rude to be late for any arrangement and while he's not the most punctual person in the world, he'd at least have the common courtesy to text or call or —

"Oi! Tachibana!"

Seijuurou's unmistakable roar comes up from somewhere behind him and it makes Makoto feel lighter than air. When a waving Seijuurou comes into view, all goofy smiles and tanned skin, Makoto waves back and smiles so widely, his cheeks hurt. Again.

Fifteen minutes late or no, all is instantly forgiven.

"You're late," Makoto says, tone playfully scolding.

Seijuurou smirks a little, looks at his own watch, then shrugs, unperturbed. "Oh, am I?"

"You are." Makoto frowns. Pretend-frowns, anyway. "And I'm upset," he adds, because why not?

"Aw, but I spent so long getting ready and trying to look good for you," he drawls. And though Makoto knows he's just being a playful dork, a part of his brain can't help but hope that's true. He also notices how Seijuurou's voice is deeper and huskier than normal—too rich to be faked, he decides—and how it fills him with the need to take deeper, slower breaths. Looking at Seijuurou doesn't help: he _does _look good, wearing something sleeveless and olive green that shows off what years of intense swimming can do to a young man's arms.

Or what they, in turn, can do to the knees of someone ogling them.

The loud honk of a car horn startles Makoto and keeps him from stumbling. A familiar red compact waits for them in front of the station and Makoto beams. Then his face cracks when he realizes if Seijuurou's out here with him, then...?

There's already someone sitting in the front passenger seat. _His _seat, though he tries to shove such thoughts to the back of his mind. There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. And he meekly looks to Seijuurou for it.

"Oh, yeah," Seijuurou says, suddenly remembering. "I forgot to mention: we're going to have some company for a short while."

Company?

The scent of perfume inside the Yaris is strong—stronger than the last time Makoto was in it. The culprit is sitting up front, seat reclined back and her long legs stretched shamelessly out onto the dash. She beams and wriggles her fingers at Makoto in a wave. He smiles, awkwardly, and returns it. He's never met her, has never seen her before, but instantly knows who she is. The golden eyes are a dead giveaway.

She's Seijuurou's sister.

A strange mix of relief and uncertainty floods Makoto as he climbs into the back seat. It's spacious enough inside with Seijuurou in the front seat. With a third person there, it seems a lot more crowded than it really is.

"Thankfully, oneesan's not going to the movies with us," Seijuurou offers. "She's going to the Gorgon caves to get her hair fixed or something."

Unsure what a Gorgon cave is (and even less certain he wants to know), Makoto nevertheless smiles to her. "Hello," he says, politely.

"Not going to introduce us,_ Sei-chan_? Where are your manners?" Seijuurou's sister speaks to her brother with a sing-song voice that's undoubtedly grating on purpose. Makoto notices the width of Seijuurou's smirk decreasing with each syllable.

There's some key-jingling and eye-rolling before Seijuurou adjusts his mirrors and meets Makoto's meek gaze in the rear-view. "Makoto Tachibana, this is my older sister, Jun." A pause, and Seijuurou's lips curve and his eyebrows furrow almost evilly. "And when I say older, I mean it. Don't look at her too long, though, or else you'll turn into a pillar of salt."

"Hey!" She swats at his shoulder.

Ignoring her, Seijuurou rolls his eyes as he puts the car into gear and pulls out onto the road from the station. The sudden lurch forward reminds Makoto to fasten his seatbelt and hold on tight.

Jun, meanwhile, doesn't seem too fazed by her brother's comments or method of driving and casually crawls up to her knees so that she's peering over the back of her seat directly at Makoto. "So you're the famous Makoto," she says, face beaming with curiosity.

Famous? Feeling his face burn, he leans back into the suede of his seat, to no avail. "Y-Yes, I'm...Makoto."

"It's so good to finally meet you in person! Sei-chan's been talking about you so much, I just had to—"

The car abruptly veers into the next lane. A work truck honks at them but Seijuurou's too busy glaring at his sister, face boiled a red nearly matching his hair. "HEY!"

"Don't 'hey' me! Keep your eyes on the road and hands on the wheel at all times! Safety first!" Apparently, safety inside of the car isn't so much an issue for Jun, as she comes dangerously close to helping her brother run an SUV off the road when she twists his ear in a way that just screams old hat.

Seijuurou bellows in pain, tries to elbow Jun off, and fights to keep the vehicle from straying out of its lane, all at the same time. "Knock it off, baba! You're gonna get us all killed!"

"I told you to stop calling me that!"

"I'll stop calling you baba when it no longer applies, you frizzy-haired baba!"

"My hair's not frizzy! It's just over-processed right now!"

This family is insane. Makoto's sure of it.

* * *

They pull into a service station to get some gas and snacks for Jun. She volunteers Seijuurou to do the honors, sending him into the mini-mart, leaving her and Makoto alone at the pump. They climb out to stretch their limbs as nearly an hour on the road in a compact sedan didn't do them any favors.

"You're tall," Jun quips, after a long while of looking at him through the corner of her eye.

Makoto tilts his head. Blushes, a little, though he has a hunch she's just making small-talk. Or it's going to segue into something else. "Seijuurou's taller. You're tall, too," he counters, feeling awkward and shy and, well, it's true. She probably used to swim.

Unlike Makoto, Jun isn't shy, and she stands straight, miming some kind of pose, one arm extended over her head. "Makes it easy to reach the overhead bins," she says with a proud upward tip of her chin. They share a little laugh at that.

Until Jun's expression turns a little mischievous. Just as Makoto feared. "So."

"So...?" he manages, throat tightening with dread.

"So. Are you two...?" Her hand makes a loose fist then her pinky finger, nail painted a candy-apple red and almost shaped like a heart, stands upright at attention.

"N-No!"

"Oh, but I thought..." She looks weird, and then frowns suspiciously. "Are you _sure_?"

A gas station attendant takes that exact moment to put the nozzle and hose back on the stand, thus mercifully killing that particular course of discussion. Jun thanks him and he's gone, off to the next car. Makoto almost considers calling him back to avoid what's sure to come.

Sure enough, Jun glances back at him. "So," she says, again, her tone hushed and conspiratorial as she eyes her brother towering over everyone inside the mini-mart. "You know what I said earlier, in the car. It wasn't to tease him—" Jun pauses and considers her words when Makoto gives her a slightly cringing look, "—okay, it wasn't _only _just to tease him. But Sei-chan really did mention you a lot this past week, that's why I thought you two were...well, you know."

Makoto's too stunned to even notice if his ears are as red as they feel hot. Or if he's still blushing all over. "...he did?"

"Yeah. I don't know the details, but I just know he's been beating himself up for the past few days about something he did or didn't do with you. Of course, he didn't mention anything about it to me until I twisted his ears for it." Smug, she combs her hair back from her face with her fingers. Though it's long and an obviously dyed shade of dark brown, she looks very much like her younger brother there. "But he's like that, though. Internalizes everything until you either ease or force it out of him."

"He does?" Realizing his half of the conversation's been little more than two words at a time, Makoto clears his throat. "I mean, I wouldn't have figured him for it, he's always so..."

"Loud and rude and obnoxious?"

"...I wouldn't say that," Makoto grimaces. "Mikoshiba-senpai is open and proud and says whatever he's thinking."

In fact, Makoto sometimes wishes he can be more like him. A proud father-type instead of the passive and too kind mother-hen everyone seems to say (or indirectly say) he is.

"Because it's expected of him," Jun says with a shrug. "But I can assure you, with him, there's a lot more going on than he lets on. Just keep that in mind. If he says it's nothing, that's your cue to be direct."

Before Makoto can question her any further about it, Seijuurou returns from the mini-mart and hands Jun her requests: two ungodly sized cans of Red Bull. "Were you guys talking about me?"

"You should be so lucky," Jun says, smooth as butter. She sneaks a wink toward Makoto. "Makoto-kun should change places with me and sit up front, don't you think?"

Makoto's not sure but when he passes her and she passes him, and they exchange a knowing look, he feels like they exchanged something else besides seats, too.

* * *

"All right, have fun you two," Jun chirps as she climbs out of the vehicle onto the curb. "See you in a few hours. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

"So, basically, anything just short of cannibalism," Seijuurou mutters with a sneer.

Jun presses her middle finger against the driver's side window and drags it along the glass in a wild, zigzag pattern. "That's for you."

"Whatever." Seijuurou waves her off as Makoto just chortles behind his hand. "Call me when you're ready to fly back home so I can bring you back your broom."

Jun looks at Makoto in the passenger seat, pointedly ignoring her brother. "It was nice meeting you, Makoto-kun. Take care of Sei-chan." She winks. "And remember what I told you!"

She's gone before the heat rushes up Makoto's neck—it's barely dusting over his cheeks when Seijuurou regards him with a highly-arched brow of suspicion. It almost looks menacing. "What did she tell you?"

Makoto wishes the floorboards beneath him can just finally open up and swallow him whole. "N-Nothing," he mumbles.

"Nothing?"

"That's right. Nothing."

It's not 'nothing', but Seijuurou doesn't need to know that. At least, not yet. Thankfully, the redhead doesn't pry. He simply puts the car into drive and zips out onto the road toward the movie theater.

The theater is another fifteen minutes away from Jun's salon. It isn't in a mall, nor is it tucked away in some dark alley. It's a four-screen cineplex, modestly sandwiched between a closed dance studio and a music supply store—the perfect scene for the arts and for hipsters. Judging by the red velvet carpets and upholstery, and the gold trimmings here and there, it was probably an old stage theater, revamped and refurbished to look like a Western-style classic movie theater.

It's also classic in taste. None of the films listed on the sign in blocky black katakana seem familiar. At least, not to Makoto, who looks at them like he does each week's vocabulary list in English class.

_The Blob. Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman. Psycho. It Came from Outer Space._

Seijuurou doesn't notice his discomfort. "What about Psycho?" he offers.

Makoto squirms. The title doesn't sound very promising but the enthusiasm and grin Seijuurou has doesn't indicate it's a bad movie, either. Probably not Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman bad, but still. Psycho? "I never heard of it."

"Really? Holy shit, man. We have to rectify that. Like _right now_."

With no other warning, Seijuurou hooks his arm around Makoto's and tugs him along to the box office where a young woman waiting behind the counter perks up with interest at the two tall young men approaching it. She smiles, widely, letting her eyes roam over the junction of their looped arms.

"Two tickets to Psycho, please!" Seijuurou requests, giddy and unaware the young lady's looking at him—at them—with a wicked glint in her eye. Like they're dinner. Makoto does, so he moves his arm away as politely as possible and lets it hang limp at his side; it still lingers close to Seijuurou's to feel the heat radiating off it. For now, that's enough.

Miss Knowing Smile fiddles with some buttons on her register, her namesake never fading. It widens when she makes eye contact with Makoto and asks, "You boys out on a date?"

To his surprise, Seijuurou just shrugs and pays for the tickets. "Sure."

The only person more stunned than Miss Knowing Smile is Makoto himself.

How about that. They are on a date.

And he couldn't be happier.

* * *

Although Makoto knows next to nothing about him or his body of work—with this Psycho being the first of his films he's ever seen—Alfred Hitchcock is a master of suspense and intrigue. An amazing thing, considering these types of movies aren't his cup of tea.

Since they were youngsters, Nagisa was (and still is) the horror movie buff of the club, often bringing his collection to their sleepovers. His favorites are the violent, spooky ones—the ones with the Jasons, the Freddy Kruegers, the Leatherfaces. Makoto's been terrified of them and all others like them ever since. Something about watching teenagers being stalked and tortured by a disfigured lunatic never struck him as a pleasant experience, and he wondered, once or twice, how anyone besides a sociopath can derive any sort of pleasure from it. He's also wondered if those movies are to blame for why Nagisa is as every bit as demented as he is now.

Yet, Psycho is different, and it's not because it's in plain black and white. Makoto finds himself actually drawn into the movie's plot, even emotionally invested in Marion Crane and her dilemma with the stolen money and hoping she'd do the right thing before the law catches up to her!

Beside him sits Seijuurou. Recently finished with _three _smuggled boxes of Junior Mints, he sips from a mega-sized cup until the ice inside stirs. Occasionally, he offers commentary and bits of trivia, like how Marion's purse and underclothes go from white to black after she steals the money, and how it's the first movie to ever show a toilet flushing. Intrigued, Makoto listens and murmurs questions between handfuls of popcorn with extra butter. All to the chagrin of a portly and hairy man several rows down who twice had to turn in his seat and give them disparaging looks and shushes. Both times, Seijuurou dismissed him with a glare and one-fingered salute.

Now, on screen, Marion and the jittery owner of the motel, Norman Bates, chat away. _A boy's best friend is his mother._

What a strange man.

Makoto silently offers popcorn; Seijuurou gratefully takes two large handfuls then offers up his drink in exchange. Makoto sips from the same straw, the same one that was just between the other boy's lips. It's strangely erotic, almost like indirectly kissing him. The notion makes his imagination wander: Seijuurou swirling his long tongue around the straw, nibbling his teeth down on it, sealing his lips over it and suckling without a care in the world. Guided by those thoughts, Makoto does the same, lets his tongue search for the drink's flavor on the surface of the straw before he even breathes through it. He groans lowly when he does.

Fruit punch.

Seijuurou coughs suddenly and crosses then uncrosses his long legs.

Makoto starts and hopes, and hopes hard, that he wasn't just spotted practically frenching a straw. "Are you...okay?"

"I'm fine," Seijuurou says. Without warning, he leans in over the cup in Makoto's hand, taking a gulp so hearty, anyone can see the rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he settles back.

Makoto relinquishes the cup and shifts around in his own seat, suddenly finding it a little tight and uncomfortable to just simply sit and not think about tongues and throats. "You sure?"

Seijuurou nods and gestures to the screen as Norman Bates is upbraided by some unseen elderly woman. _I won't have you bringing some young girl in for supper!_

Then Marion is taking a shower. Makoto grows a bit uncomfortable. He feels like a voyeur—like he shouldn't be watching this. He squirms just as Seijuurou leans in on his side and whispers, "Here comes the best part," his breath, cold from his drink, wafting against his neck.

It makes Makoto shudder, and he can't tell if it's good or bad.

The shower curtain draws back suddenly and there's a shadow...and a screech. Except it's not a human screech at all, but a violin's. And there's a butcher knife—sharp, even in black and white, it glints just before it descends. Then Marion's screaming bloody murder, literally, and Makoto's screaming along with her. His body reacts all on his own and before he can even think it's invasive or presumptuous, he's burying his face into the crook of Seijuurou's neck and trying to hide behind him somehow.

"Oi! Tachibana—hey, take it easy! Look, the scene's over." Awkwardly, Seijuurou tries to pry Makoto away from him, to no avail. Makoto's latched on, refusing to leave this sanctuary. He doesn't dare open his eyes—the image of poor, defenseless Marion being butchered in the shower is still fresh behind his eyelids.

"N-No."

"You okay?"

A tiny squeak is all Makoto can respond with. Though he can't see, he can hear the movie, can tell the scene is over from the lack of violins and shrieks. Norman is wailing, _Mother, oh god! Mother! Blood, blood! _But the damage is done. Seijuurou probably hates him more than anything right now.

"...Makoto?"

"I'm sorry, senpai," he's trembling so hard, he can't even speak. He pulls back, his head lowered. From this position, he notices that in his fright, he knocked over his bucket of popcorn and Seijuurou's soda. Shit. "I can't..."

To make matters worse, the movie snob several rows down turns and scolds them, threatening to go get the manager if they don't pipe down. Seijuurou tells him to go fuck himself then turns to Makoto. "You wanna leave?"

Mortified, Makoto can only nod.

* * *

Makoto's heart doesn't stop pounding until they're far away from the theater. Much to his delayed surprise, Seijuurou is actually driving carefully.

The world around them is unfamiliar and the late afternoon sky is darkening; Makoto can't tell much else about where they are or where they're headed, only that he's unable to smell the sea. They're not in Iwatobi, that's all he knows.

The car pulls onto the side of the road somewhere away from the lights and sounds of businesses and homes and traffic. There's a loud cranking noise when Seijuurou pulls on the parking brake then nothing else, except, "Tachibana?"

"I'm—I'm sorry," Makoto sighs.

"Don't be. Listen," Seijuurou turns halfway in his seat and sets a heavy but strangely comforting hand down on Makoto's shoulder. "I'm not sure what you feel sorry for, but I need you to take a deep breath. Can you do that for me?"

Nodding, Makoto does as told, taking a none-too-shallow gulp of air and exhaling moments later. It's strangely relaxing, so he does it again and again, until his nerves settle. Until he's brave enough to look up at Seijuurou's face without wanting to bolt out the door and out of his life.

"Sorry," Seijuurou murmurs first, guiltily. "I shouldn't have suggested that one. Shoulda gone with the outer space movie instead."

"No, it would've had the same result, I'm sure. I'm just a wuss like that," Makoto says with a little self-deprecating laugh. "I'm a scaredy cat. Ask anyone I know. Horror movies and I don't mix."

Outside the car, cicadas chirp—a stark contrast to the deafening silence inside. Makoto feels ridiculous now. His first date and he's ruined everything.

"Clowns," Seijuurou says out of the blue.

"Huh?"

"I'm scared of clowns," Seijuurou murmurs, squeezing the steering wheel until his knuckles look whiter than powder. "Seriously. At least you're scared of something that's _supposed _to be scary. Me? If Ronald McDonald showed up here, I'd shit a brick."

Makoto chuckles and snorts against his better judgment. "You're kidding." The thought of a strong and confident young man like Seijuurou being afraid of a clown is too surreal, yet the serious look in his eyes when he shakes his head says otherwise—no, he's absolutely _not _kidding.

Why did he tell him this? To make him feel better?

Something in Makoto's chest flutters. He recalls Jun's earlier words but finds himself unable to do anything but stare longingly at the redhead.

"If I knew, I wouldn't have brought you out here like this." Seijuurou scrubs a hand through his hair and against his nape, something Makoto notices he does when he's anxious or when things aren't going as planned. "I'm sorry, I keep screwing up..."

Makoto panics. "No! Don't be! I'm glad I got the chance to do this with you." He's just babbling now. "I had fun. Er, I'm having fun. I mean, I _always _have fun...with you."

There's a look on Seijuurou's face that borders on amusement and disbelief. It's priceless. His left eyebrow arches high to match the same lifted side of his smirking mouth. So boyish and cute, Makoto can't look at it for too long without hearing his own heart pound in his ears. "Even when I take you to see movies with cross-dressing killers?"

"Yes, even when—wait," there's undoubtedly a strong crease in the space between Makoto's eyebrows as he thinks back to the movie, "cross-dressing killers? So that _wasn't _Norman's mother?"

Seijuurou blurts out a single laugh then winces sheepishly. "Oops?"

"Oh, I can't believe you!"

"Well, I can't believe _you've_ never even heard of Psycho! Seriously, you need to live a little more, man." Playfully, Seijuurou smacks him hard on the shoulder and Makoto can't hide his grimace in time. "Oh, was I too—?"

"N-No." Makoto rubs his shoulder. "It's been like this all week. Think I might've overdone it..."

Seijuurou decreases the weight of his palm, mindfully, alleviating the pain there. But it's only a temporary relief—the tight ache still burns. "What's wrong with it? Swimmer's shoulder?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I'll get it checked out next week. It's no big deal."

"Yeah, no big deal until you're benched for a torn rotator cuff. Come on." Seijuurou unbuckles his seatbelt and exits the car, only to reenter it via one of the rear doors. "And take your shirt off."

Makoto can only sit and stare, limbs frozen in place. Seijuurou may as well have asked him to murder his family. "S-Senpai?"

"Don't look at me like that. I'm just going to give you a little massage, that's all."

That's all, he says. As if.

It's not that Makoto isn't curious about it, because he most definitely is. And his shoulder _does _hurt like hell and who wouldn't want to have those hands on their body?

But what if a police officer catches them? What then? _Why no, Officer. We're not performing any lewd acts or doing anything unseemly at all! I always take my shirt off and sit in the backseat of a car on the side of the road in the early evenings with other men. It's actually a hobby of mine!_

Curiosity wins out over discretion when Makoto climbs gracelessly over his seat into the back. It's a minor comfort knowing Seijuurou's expression remains neutral, never shifting at all as Makoto unbuttons his own shirt with trembling fingers.

As a swimmer, he's disrobed and dressed in front of others. Countless times, even. Yet there he is, red as a lobster and shaking like a leaf, worrying if his physique measures up to Seijuurou's expectations.

"Don't worry, I do this all the time with the rookies on my team. Helps ease things until you can see a doctor or something."

"Really, there's no need," Makoto croaks, one last attempt to break free before he turns his back on the other. The air inside the car has suddenly turned muggy, almost stifling, even if the windows are cracked open and the breeze outside is strong.

"You backstrokers, always so stubborn." Seijuurou slides up behind him.

"How did you know I—"

How Seijuurou knows his preferred method of swimming will forever remain a mystery once his hands, large and unbelievably warm, fall on the bared skin of Makoto's back. They move back and forth, tracing the defined lines there, surprisingly soft and delicate despite their size, barely skimming the skin in search of something. What exactly, Makoto's not sure.

Then one of Seijuurou's hands stops moving. The pad of his thumb hones in on just a tiny spot under the tender ridge of bone at Makoto's right shoulder blade...

He doesn't press into it so much as he _absolutely nails it_.

It's so abrupt yet so good, so _perfect_, and everything Makoto needs.

"Ah!"

Seijuurou chuckles silkily as Makoto settles back into the seat he almost leapt out of. "Did I get it?"

Oh did he ever. "How did you...?"

"Trade secret." He pushes his thumb into the spot again and Makoto rewards him with a loud groan and shudder of delight. "Still want me to stop?"

"Never."

Makoto read somewhere that it's common for people to doze off during massages. Now, sitting there with strong fingers stimulating the spots they just palliated and discovering tickly spots he never knew existed, Makoto has to wonder _how_.

One minute, every muscle and nerve fiber in his body feels coiled tight like a spring that's ready to snap. After amazing and deft fingers have worked their way deep into his skin and muscle, everything relaxes...only to tighten again at the feel of fruit punch-scented breath tickling his neck.

"You smell good," Seijuurou murmurs, voice deep and rumbly and lips nearly grazing his ear lobe. "Is that Calvin Klein?"

"Y-Yeah," Makoto whimpers. He can't recognize the sound of his own voice: thick and breathless with arousal. The tension and pain is melting from him so fast, it's dizzying. Out the corner of his eye, he captures the sight of fog on the car's rear window. That might explain the single bead of sweat sliding down the hollow of his spinal column.

Or maybe it's because of the spidery crawl of Seijuurou fingers up and down his sides.

Either way, it doesn't keep Makoto's body from twitching violently when those glorious hands come together at the tiny space just beneath the nape of his neck. Fingers and palm-heels work in unison, rubbing small and slow circles deep into the tissue there, the mere motion urging him to roll back into the body behind his.

Makoto hisses, vaguely aware that his own hands are clutching not Seijuurou's knees, but his thighs. As expected, they're well-toned and defined and they twitch beneath his kneading, sweaty palms. He can't bring himself to even feel apologetic about it. "Mikoshiba-senpai..."

"Just call me Seijuurou." The vibration of Seijuurou's humming bass on his neck steals the breath straight from Makoto's lungs, leaving him a panting and whimpering mess.

Then Seijuurou does something with the flat heels of his palms—he pushes them hard into the small of Makoto's back, forcing it to arch. And that's when Makoto realizes he's hard, painfully so, cock swollen with need and straining against the thin, cotton fabric of his boxers. An obvious bulge forms in his pants and he hopes Seijuurou doesn't notice it.

Looking to maintain more self-control now that what little of it he has left is slipping away by the minute, Makoto straightens his spine and slides back, bumping his rear against something hard and thick. Yet still warm and wrapped in fabric. Not Seijuurou's hip. A little lower...

"Oh!"

When Makoto gasps, so does Seijuurou. But for a different reason.

He's embarrassed.

"Oh shit. Shit! Sorry!" Seijuurou awkwardly shifts around, attempting to wiggle away from Makoto and bumps his head against the door behind him. "Fuck!"

Turning to face him, Makoto clenches the hand on his thigh. "Senpai..."

"Hang on, Tachibana, if I could just get my leg free—"

"_Seijuurou_." Somehow, direct use of his name puts an end to all escape plans. Feeling the other boy tense up, Makoto casts a deliberate glance downward, between his legs. Then another, between Seijuurou's.

"It's _okay_," he whispers, then he slides his hand up his thigh, even though he's not even sure what's possessing him to even do such a thing. About the only thing he's sure of is that this is the craziest thing he's ever tried.

That and Seijuurou's not even trying to stop him.

His fingers barely reach the delta of wrinkled and stretched fabric when Seijuurou's phone, tucked into a pocket not even two inches up from Makoto's wandering hand, glows and vibrates from an incoming call.

They can't scoot away from each other any quicker even if they try.

Head ducked and gold eyes averted, Seijuurou adjusts himself as he moves back into the driver's seat. Voice dry, he offers his caller a quick, "I'm on my way," and nothing else before hanging up.

In the backseat, Makoto puts his shirt back on and, after some serious thought, decides it's best to just remain back there. He knows it's not his fault they were interrupted, but he still can't shake the feeling that he shouldn't have done something worth interrupting in the first place. Like he's pushed them both over some boundary they can't ever return from.

The awkward silence lingers until Jun rejoins them later, though the looming tension remains.

"Did you have fun?" She asks them.

"Yes," Makoto and Seijuurou reply in unison so swift, it's not accidental. Luckily, Jun doesn't comment on it. She doesn't need to—the way her freshly waxed brows raise together says it all.

They say nothing else for the rest of the trip back to Iwatobi.

* * *

Later that evening, long after the club meeting at Haru's, Makoto's tucked in his bed, replaying the day's events and trying to make sense of everything when his phone lights up.

A text message from Seijuurou. He's almost afraid to read it.

_Hope ur shoulder's better._

Relieved, Makoto grins and responds with a hasty: _it is. thank you. :) _And sets the phone on his nightstand, satisfied things ended on that sort of note instead of something sour.

Not ten minutes later, his phone lights up again with another message and unlike the previous one, Makoto regrets even reading it.

_Jun has the worst timing in the universe, just sayin._

"No, Seijuurou," Makoto whispers to himself as he peeks to make sure his bedroom door is locked. Once he's sure it is, one hand disappears beneath his blanket. "_You _do."

It's tricky at first, but after a few tries, he discovers texting with one hand is rather easy.

* * *

**Note**: Please review! This chapter was a long time coming and I'm sorry for the delay. But, hey, it's twice as long as the other two?


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